


I'm like a raindrop in the ocean

by comicfanperson



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Brief suicidal thoughts, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Loneliness, Pain, Suicidal Thoughts, im sorry, no real ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comicfanperson/pseuds/comicfanperson
Summary: Oscar is hurting. No one cares.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	I'm like a raindrop in the ocean

**Author's Note:**

> ive been having a really awful time lately, and essentially what is happening is me projecting my thoughts and feelings onto oscar. 
> 
> im sorry.
> 
> this will probably be the last update from me for a while.

The emotions were trapped within him. Clutching tightly at his chest, constricting his lungs, cutting off his breathing. From limb to limb he felt numb, in his mind he felt unbearably tired, but his heart felt so heavy, it ached with hurt and fear and sadness. He laid in his bed,, stuck in place, unable to move even if he wanted to.

He felt awful. This had been slowly building up for a while now, he knew that upon thinking about the last few weeks, and he was certain he’d never felt as simultaneously empty and overloaded as he did now than in his entire life. Everything just hurt. He couldn’t think about anything other than the pain just sitting in his soul and his heart. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he screwed them up in an attempt to hold them back.    
  
He felt useless, purposeless. He felt like nobody cared. He felt like people chose to not notice. He was nothing. He provided nothing to people. They didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him. They thought he was a nuisance. They thought he was too needy. It was wrong to feel this way. Everything about this was wrong because it was stupid to wallow in self-pity and despair and yet here he was anyways. 

He could barely breathe, the crushing weight of his own thoughts and feelings was overbearing. He longed for the past, he longed for the gentle reassurance of the farm animals and his aunt’s cooking, he didn’t have these thoughts back then. 

Most days he felt like he was just floating. Like he was just… there. Sometimes when he’d feel good, feel  _ better,  _ he’d instantly crash all over again. Trapped in a place that was somewhere between broken numbness and overwhelming negativity.    
  
The pain doubled. A single thought flashed through his mind. 

_ I want to go home.  _

That wasn't bad in and of itself, except for that the following thought was the crushing, disappointing  _ I am home.  _

He opened his mouth in a wide, desperate, silent scream. The pain was so much. It was too much. H ecouldn;t do this. He couldn;t keep doing this.    
  
Home was baking pies of whatever fruit was in season with his aunt. Home was playing fetch with whatever stick the dog brought to him on a warm spring day. Home was late nights playing cards. Home was reading a book on a snowy winter morning.    
  
This wasn’t home. This place wasn’t his home. These  _ people  _ weren’t his home. 

Tears slipped down his face. 

Worthless.

Useless. 

Needy.

Too much.

Too little. 

He could let go of it all. Right now. He could just… stop it all. It was a dark, forbidden thought, but he  _ could.  _ The tears stopped. He felt papralyized as the thought took the forefront of his mind. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? If he just… 

No.

He couldn’t.

But it’d… it’d be so  _ easy.  _ It could be quick, if he did it  _ right- _

**_No._ **

But he could run. He could leave in the dead of night. They’d never find him. He’d essentially be alone, out there in the big world, but at least he’d be away from this pain. He stared at the floors, thoughts of running and being alone and separated from this racing through his head. It would be so nice. He could abandon this responsibility, it wasn’t like he was doing much in the way of helping anyhow. Maybe he’d find happiness out there, even if just for a fleeting moment, maybe he could feel  _ real. _

He stared blankly at the floors. The blanket was both too warm and not warm enough. That crushing weight of too many emotions increased. He could barely breathe, much less think clearly. 

He felt tired. Too tired. But he couldn’t sleep. His brain was going too fast, there were too many thoughts. He couldn’t keep doing this. He  _ couldn’t. _

It was too much. So much. The things that once brought him joy were disgusting now, unappealing and now felt more like an obligation rather than something he did because they were fun. He missed doing those things. He missed the way they had made him feel. But everytime he tried to enjoy them again he felt extremely nauseous, his head would hurt like a brick had been thrown at it, and he’d feel like he needed to cry. 

He didn’t know why this was happening. He wished it would stop. He wanted it to go away.  _ He  _ wanted to go away. Be it death or solitude, he wanted to be away from this place of responsibilities. 

The numbness soon extended to his heart too, and he felt absolutely nothing. All that weight disappeared, and with it the will to do anything more than stare at the wall in front of him. He must’ve stayed like that for hours. Or maybe it was minutes. He didn't care. No one cared. Nothing mattered. He didn’t matter. All he could do was hope that one day this would end. That one day his suffering would end. 

He heard someone come up the stairs.

There was a knock on his door. 

A voice, soft and concerned.

“Oscar?” 


End file.
